


if you come, bring flowers

by enlaurement24



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Classical Music RPF
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enlaurement24/pseuds/enlaurement24
Summary: Kiva's tired, for this secret he's starting to feel out, he closes his eyes, to think it over, slowly, to avoid his customer's widening pupils, still hears the hitch in his breathing. It won't do to assume. A customer, just that, who talks about music like it runs through his veins, who knows how to please, who comes here to buy what's not for sale, a little hidden, a little power hungry. Peonies in the rain.(Tchaikovsky, from afar, and a love that tries to be good to him.)
Relationships: Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky/Original Male Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 28





	if you come, bring flowers

There's a customer, that doesn't visit for his jewelry. 

He comes to pawn off a watch in the beginning, out of all things, and he holds onto the bracelet something vicious, like he might hiss and turn around to leave. Kiva entertains the thought of saying it to his face, that he should've left it on the glass countertop in the first place, but he's already reaching out towards those spindly hands. Why be hurtful at all, gratuitous, when the man jumps once they touch, half throws the watch into Kiva's open palms. Surprising, just to the side of stupid, that it's his own fumbling, the way he ends up chest down over the counter, that makes the other man look up, away from the floor. Kiva laughs. He wishes he wouldn't, wishes he'd watched this one person earlier, from the moment the bell had chimed, just to see more than this upwards angle of a sour face awkwardly young. He laughs, an offensively short snort, and then he coughs trying to cover it up, body relaxed in this dumb position he's got himself in, with his arms extended, and there's ice over his head, from light eyes, he can taste that shame turned into anger.

It won't do losing potential business, not like this.

So Kiva braces a hand under his chest and he comes up slowly, controlled motion that leaves his spine leaning to the side and his elbow bent, fingers splayed wide on the glass. He'll have to wipe it down later. It's satisfying, that for all his customer is tall, Kiva's taller, just a hair. And if straightens a bit, squares his shoulders without aggression, then it has nothing to do with how this man swallows his indignation, how he lifts his chin to look him in the eye. His skin tingles and he has to fight down sharp dislike, tension born out of nothing crawling up his back. Not a thief, for sure, not exactly nobility either, but the shape of that pointy nose and the bratty challenge in the tightness of his mouth betray easy living. He's not ugly, not by far, and yet Kiva digs into it, notices how his straight eyebrows push on his eyelids, and clings to it with pettiness. He must be bored, if he's indulging this fledgling.

' _Pan_ , how can I be of service? I assume, this watch?'

Kiva speaks slowly, like he's not thinking of snapping this twig in half and throwing him out. Business is business after all, and besides, he gets to see something funny. His _customer_ gives, straightens out shedding uncertainty like a snake. Braces just the heel of his left against the counter and steps closer, soft smile on an abrupt inhale, a little crooked, and his neck bends to follow Kiva's eyes. His eyebrows relax further, outside corners lowering until he looks like a happy dog.

He talks, and Kiva misses the few first words, because his voice doesn't fit him, raspy with disuse, it feels disagreeable for this hour of the morning, for the clean floors of his shop, for his cleaner glass cases with locks that shine. It feels like his whole jewelry wants to come alive and hunt out this customer that isn't, a hum of distaste, of broken pieces that don't have a place. He should clean his tools again. 

Pawn off a watch, in good state, easy. No need for these hysterics fit for a hag. Kiva is absolutely not superstitious. There is no black cat in his path, no mirror to break in here. The one he has is already cracked, just to the corner, hidden by flowers. He'd rather not risk it.

For all his initial fussing, the man is less interested in the offer Kiva makes and more keen on licking over with his gaze every centimetre of the room. Kiva's honest, but it's early and he's being rubbed the very wrong way, so maybe he rips this idiot off, just a bit, since he's allowed so easily. Serves him right, to scoff at the fresh coffee stain on a jeweler's white shirt.

They don't shake hands, and Kiva would like that to be his choice, but he's only aggravated that there's no initiative from the other side, the man doesn't even seem to consider it at all. He needs to scrub everything clean. Keep his jaw from tightening, for now, just until the customer is out.

He makes it to the door, then stops, turns his head towards Kiva's watches on show and Kiva barely bites down a curse. Faded sun through the bars of the window, it makes him look nothing like what he is, lighting up the ends of his hair, a strand that falls away from behind his ear turning fiery orange. He'll look back now, over his shoulder, searching Kiva's eye, he's sure, it must be.

He doesn't, just pushes on the doorknob with a chuckle that comes rough out his throat and he's gone like a demon at dawn. He'll be back. 

_Witch_ , Kiva thinks with no bite to it.

*** 

He does come back.

Kiva spends time at home petting Kirill and Misha. Specifically, the way he never does, the way it happens after his sisters and their husbands and their screaming children visit. It takes weeks, and shame grows inside him that every morning, up until lunch, the chime of the bell makes him want to crawl under the counter. So he goes home and he pets them some, down on the cold stairs, while they bite softly at each other.

A man and a woman come looking for promise rings. He doesn't decide easily and she returns alone before closing time, asks to try on necklaces. Kiva's hand closing on her neck turns out to be enough.

She tastes bitter, so he closes on time, his words still dry in his throat, and he goes home to pet his boys again, worrying he's running them thin with this compulsion.

('Good men won't choke you, girl. Ask him nicely though, he might.')

One day the door to his shop opens to be flooded with brightness, reddish halo around that man's hair, slicked back tighter this time, dark blue suit and a white collar that presses to his pulse. Kiva's tempted to close his eyes in relief. He already has customers, a pair of women wanting colored stones, cornering him with demands of professional advice. It's torture sorting through their indecisiveness, through the way the redheaded one allows her friend to clasp everything on her, but doesn't agree to rings. Kiva thinks them too old for this and they touch him too much and he cannot possibly focus enough to get rid of them with that other menace in his shop, staring vacant at anklets and watches. Good lord. 

Kiva's been born on French earth, he remembers a haze of frills, of laces and red lipstick, of free giggles gifted easily, he's kept the colorful swearing for all his 33 years of spiteful existence, but he doesn't miss the chaos of it. The glass is cold here in the morning, grey light cutting on crispness, expanding inside his lungs to borders known and familiar. The tongue is a brutal, sneaky thing to kill intrusion, but Russian men don't talk much, and in women, Kiva pays more attention to the voice than to the words, they might as well spit at him. He likes the redhead, irritating as she is, so he reels her in, a snap of fingers, _turn around_ , runs his knuckles over the skin of her thin neck as he brings the necklace at her nape to latch.

He sees her friend light up over her shoulder, mouth opening on a toothy grin and hands reaching out without restraint, and she's beautiful then. When he blinks, Kiva finds his unwanted customer leaning against the counter, propped up on an invasive elbow. Close enough to smell. Too much. It's too much, these women that hide poorly, fingers denting corsets and lipstick on the neckline of dresses.

Kiva's called _mother_ two women in France, the only family he's ever cared to have. The Russians blush too quickly, it's maybe rubbed off on him some, if his customer is being a better host, complimenting where he knows he's welcome, openly pleasant. Goddamn.

They leave with their arms linked, pretty little bags containing mismatched earrings and pendants. As soon as the door closes, the man gets right into his face, a flicker of his pupils, corners of his mouth upturned and he's saying he's looking for cufflinks. Half a mind not to kick him out. There's something about the slope of his shoulders that's meant a threat, a hint of intended evil. Kiva ends up taking out every pair on show, every pair he has in the back, ones that he'd been working on as well, unfinished. It's a curse no one else comes in, but it's just after lunch, he hasn't eaten and he's granted no escape. He says _pan_ until his mouth hurts, gives his own name half unwillingly out of propriety. It takes hours, it feels so, if anything, he begins fastening the cufflinks on those bony wrists himself just to shorten this labor, somewhere between dodging questions about shaping gold and questions of what he'd like to eat. _Pryaniki_ , actually, but he'd rather skin himself than say it. His head starts buzzing after, unknown inside pressure that he can't explain, a smell of green that burns going down his throat. 

It's only when he's wrapping up stainless steel cufflinks which are downright ugly that Kiva realizes the man has been speaking about food and desserts for an inordinate amount of time. He doesn't jump, but it's a close thing, and when he looks up from his hands, those beady little eyes are waiting for him with insulting patience. The cufflinks are nothing, trash just to the side, Kiva's so angry he won't even ask money for them. The man knows. 

' _Pan_ Yekev? I apologize, I must have bored you. I assumed, since neither of us has eaten, that speaking of food might be filling, if a little short of it,' and he smiles unlike before, a victory in pettiness, it travels all the way to his eyes and his neck bends again, tilting. Attention. He's after being given attention, and something else, hard to say. 

Kiva takes time. He works with people, he won't be riled up this easily. He's not sure of the game but he wants this person gone, so he'll play.

Kiva asks for his name.

*** 

He should have not asked for his name. Like inviting evil in, if evil turned up with sweets in tow that he leaves carelessly all around Kiva's shop.

Tchaikovsky does not come for his jewelry, but he always buys random trinkets, the cheapest things in the shop that he digs around for with undivided stubbornness. He doesn't listen to Kiva's offers and he slams the door on his way out, redness peeking out of his collar when Kiva refuses to show him the earrings he's been refining, a work still in progress.

He leaves candy behind that day, wrappers gold and blue, some empty. Kiva looks at the offending bag all day until closing time and then he gives them away half-hearted to the bored girl in front of the brothel just down the street from his jewelry. She's more confused than anything, it saves him the embarrassment of shaking her hands off him. He should move perhaps, although his customers don't seem to care much. Kiva likes these people, the matron here and the couple that owns the bar on the other side, the dusty bookshop challenging the fortune teller's squeezed-in room for the thickest layer of dust. Thieves don't come looking here, because they might not come out, not when the butcher's shop is run by a woman that never has blood on her apron, meticulous and careful.

Maybe he should ask around, about his unwanted customer. Tchaikovsky might not visit only him, and the girls would know perhaps, a face like that, the width of his frame still fragile, the honey words falling empty out of him, the shape of that not quite there beard. It's something sticky to the image of him, Kiva can recall everything, movements as well, and he wishes the familiarity gone. He looks back, trying to decide, but the sight of the girl's neckline makes him feel colder. It doesn't fit right over what he's seen of Tchaikovsky.

He thinks about it, as he walks to his house, as he feeds his boys, as he boils carrots. A stray cat wanders in, curls orange against Kirill's belly where he lays down, quiet content that's been repeating for years now. Kiva's mind empties here where no one can see him, but maybe not today. He doesn't understand the why of it. His skin pricks with dissatisfaction, blindness to a problem he can only guess at, he's missing the key to this. For all that he talks, all the goddamn time, about the dumbest matters, Tchaikovsky doesn't let out much. Food at first, then desserts specifically, a dispassionate affair where he'd only tried picking at Kiva's weaknesses, paintings eventually because he'd thought the shop looked rather empty. He'd repeated _Diego Velázquez_ spitefully, stubborn for the name to infiltrate Kiva's skull no matter how closed his ears might be. He has money, but not to spend on such frivolities.

It had melted into music in the end, and to that, Kiva listened. Brightness, a love to run him into the ground, it fills his eyes and his raspy throat with bronze, endearment. The taste of the same satisfaction he feels when he's shaping out difficult latches on earrings, the elation of dipping silver into gold, easy meld, careful, the freedom of his hands bringing into existence. Kiva knows to see purpose. He still doesn't understand the fit of it, but he sees, and wonders without intention. 

It comes to a head eventually, on a muddy day. Tchaikovsky wanders in with dark peonies in hand, sheets of paper trying to evade from the inside of his coat, and instead of barging in the way he does, he makes to step back outside, inching the door open with his elbow, barely enough to squeeze through. Kiva watches, rests his hands relaxed on the counter, doesn't even turn his head, just looks to the side with eyelashes downturned. He tries hard not to let his excitement bleed out, _go, one more step, go away and never return_.

The rhythm of his breathing must give him away. Tchaikovsky's elbow changes side, pushes the door closed with a clean sound. Kiva's never going to be rid of him.

'Ah, slow day, is it? Flowers, real ones, to hide your cracked mirror,' and Kiva thinks _witch_ freely, frets for a moment about the accuracy of the word, over how much his customer seems to see, even hear, perhaps. He's had countless women look into that mirror and comment nothing on it.

The peonies are more leaves than flowers, solid green, wetness rolling off them onto the glass, over Tchaikovsky's fingers where he holds them out by the stem.

'I'm not looking for anything today, but if you'd let me, maybe I could keep you company? I want to write, and it's clean here, and quiet.'

Forward, frighteningly so. If there's ever been a chance to will him away, this must be it, but Tchaikovsky's light eyes crinkle at the corners, an expectation of dismissal, indecently subdued and Kiva's uncertain all at once of where he's being guided. He takes the flowers, smaller hands quickly letting go before they become trapped under his, props his elbows up on the counter to rub at his eyebrow with the heel of his palm, bouquet still clasped tightly, dripping water in his hair. Kiva's tired, for this secret he's starting to feel out, he closes his eyes, to think it over, slowly, to avoid his customer's widening pupils, still hears the hitch in his breathing. It won't do to assume. A customer, just that, who talks about music like it runs through his veins, who knows how to please, who comes here to buy what's not for sale, a little hidden, a little power hungry. Peonies in the rain.

Tchaikovsky is watching him in the mirror, the back of his head and his shifting shoulders as he breathes. When Kiva straightens, he blinks himself out of a daze of sorts, the hint of a flinch in his fingers. He's not buying anything, not a customer anymore. 

'I could say no.'

Tchaikovsky waits him out, mellowed out on a decision of taking Kiva's words to heart. It's all on his face, resignation cut on hope.

If Kiva takes gratification from turning away and going into the back when Tchaikovsky still looks ready to snap with anxiety, no one has to know. But then he returns with ink and the man audibly exhales, and he colors, and by god, Kiva knows fondness in his chest and burns resentful of his own weakness. There are words bubbling up his throat, that Kiva can't stop. 

'Do you like-' 

Tchaikovsky raises an eyebrow, hands reaching out for the inkwell. 'Do I like?' 

Kiva's meant to ask him if he likes dogs, and the slip-up feels mortifying. Anything else, something, just not- why dogs, he's never... 

'Music? Do you like music?' Dumb, and obvious at that, but better than _dogs_. 

Tchaikovsky's mouth falls open, not comically, just enough, short as he inhales. The right question. He takes out the paper from where it rests against his chest, shows Kiva the front page like it couldn't be anything else. Rows of five lines grouped together with uneven circles drawn over, vertical limbs some going up, some going down. Scribbles. 

'I make music.' He's young and he says it with conviction coming from somewhere in his stomach, just short of pride. Kiva could like that. He has no idea what he's looking at, but the bookshop across the street lets him in after hours as well, no hurry in that. 

It's not warm in the shop, but Tchaikovsky still takes off his coat and huddles in it at the small round table Kiva has set in the far corner of the room, movements bleeding out from sharp, aware of being watched, to hazy comfort, spine slouching slightly. He pats himself down to find his steel-point pen, and the awkwardness of the gesture makes Kiva feel like he's intruding, unfairly so. No one will come in today. He could've gone home. He wouldn't have gone home, when there's a bracelet he's been thinking of, for months now, and commissions. 

The back of his shop is a square tight room the span of four of his steps. It's orderly, with shelves up the walls, red wood against orange paint, potential home sickness, the clean shine of his tools. He can see his customer from his seat, but tries not to. 

Sometime later Tchaikovsky goes out leaving behind all his papers, and his coat, comes back half frozen after a while, not that Kiva notices. Comes back with _pirozhki_ , still warm, eats three at the counter chewing loudly while he watches Kiva unashamedly, and leaves three more in the bag with a cheeky 'I know you'd like me not to speak, but it'll get cold if you don't hurry'. 

Sometime much later, the door of his shop opens and closes, and Kiva's left to wipe off the bread crumbs on his counter.

His boys whine, once he arrives home in the middle of the night.

*** 

Tchaikovsky doesn't ask for permission after that first time. He comes in some days just to stare off into middle distance in front of the earrings case. He's got a propensity for them.

Kiva gets used to working with the sound of steel scratching on paper buzzing uneven in the background. Tchaikovsky uses unnecessary force on a good day, and punctures through the paper when he becomes frustrated. He hums a lot trying out notes, although barely audible, an understanding that he despises his voice with viciousness Kiva can't understand. His own is raspy, admittedly lower, it's never occurred to him that he should feel a certain way about it. Oddities that make up this man. 

He buys Kiva food, but not sweets anymore, and continues to bring flowers, varying shades of red. He talks less, if anything, says more, doesn't ask uncomfortable things, but knows where to dig, the painful spot in Kiva's side. He's reason enough that the younger women stop eyeing Kiva, begin circling him if he doesn't pay attention. Something in the curve of his neck maybe, in the ironed lines of his suit, he's never ostentatious. 

A child playing violin sets up just in front of the fortune teller's and Tchaikovsky buys lunch for three people that day, happiness dripping off his fingertips. Kiva sees him through the tiny barred off window of his shop, walking up to that child, watches them talk shyly at first. There's orchids by his mirror. Warm fingers squeezing inside his chest. Tchaikovsky binds his hands together at his back worrying his fingers once the boy starts playing, tethering between encouragement and accuracy, and Kiva smiles before he has any time to control it.

*** 

'Does your wife not wait for you?'

'She'd know I am a jeweler first, don't fret.'

'She would? Wouldn't she demand your attention?'

'There's no need to keep an eye on what is yours, _pan_ Tchaikovsky.'

'Ah. Let's reopen this when you've found her then.'

*** 

Some days Kiva finds him in front of the shop, waiting for him to unlock the door, complaining that Kiva's late. It's a weird thing, how he starts talking the second Kiva comes into view, closes his eyes as he presses his shoulder first, then the side of his head against the wall, keeps going on dissatisfied about how predictable sonata form is, keeps agonizing over Mozart.

Kiva's afraid to raise his head from the door lock. He can feel the push of Tchaikovsky's words on his cheek, and worries they might kiss should he turn his head to the side, so close.

*** 

'Do you like dogs?'

'Why? Do I smell like one?'

'You have white and red hairs on your pants near the ankles. It's too coarse to be from a cat.'

'I have... two, at home. Kirill and Misha.'

'Do you pick favourites?'

*** 

Tchaikovsky watches people in a way that makes Kiva's skin crawl. He's taking them all apart, from suits that don't fit to a lip drawn wrong, smudged. God forbid stained clothing. He doesn't seem to make any distinction, and he doesn't show it except for the first few seconds Kiva's learned to be attentive to. His presence in the shop is already way out of Kiva's control, but he behaves as if he's part of the furniture, doesn't mix in with the usual customers unless addressed directly.

He watches though, all the time, searching for words to give away intentions, unconscious habits, wayward touches, roots of eyelashes that turn to Kiva. He must guess by now, that Kiva leaves patches when he shaves on purpose, desperate attempt to annoy him out of the shop. 

A woman with rough hands and green eyes comes in wanting earrings, barely pays Kiva any mind, until she does. Her smile dies down until her lips press together, and she looks down surprised, to her fingers searching out each other, to hold and twist. Her voice comes out certain, low and textured like a cat's tongue. She doesn't ask for an opinion, or advice at that, not even about materials. She clasps the pairs she tries on with steady hands, quickly, she doesn't hesitate.

When she finds what she wants, she comes in close to the counter, and looks up at Kiva. Her neck bends. There's vague crinkling at the corner of her eyes, smile crooked.

It hits him all at once, an irrational fear of acquiring a second soul. This has happened before, and Kiva can see him right over her head. They're nothing alike.

Tchaikovsky is watching her face through the mirror, choked up on longing. Jealousy that isn't, a need for the liberties she can take. 

Kiva doesn't want to know.

*** 

'What's your name?'

'Yekev.'

'...mine is Pyotr. The one I use.'

'Alright.'

*** 

Tchaikovsky doesn't always come. There's good chunks of months that he disappears. The cursed tension in Kiva's spine never lifts, like how his lower back aches before he falls asleep on warmer nights, known, he doesn't remember anymore, a version of himself free of this. It's happened too quickly perhaps.

There's a boy now loitering in the day around the brothel, and a new girl at night when Kiva stays late. Their laughter sounds the same as Kiva goes past, dress hanging loose across the chest, straining on the upper arm, _yes, have a good night Grisha, no thank you, I am too old for you._

Kiva reads in Tchaikovsky's absence, although he doesn't quite grasp how sound and music would encompass what the books describe, the emotions and intentions and the smartness of form. He reads about how symphonies are shaped and it reminds him of the swell of anxiety he can feel in Tchaikovsky right before he goes missing, unfulfilled impulse of chewing nails, how he stops talking or talks too much, over Kiva, when he's just asked a question, how his eyes darken with tiredness, burn above purple skin. Kiva wants to put him in the back, on a top shelf, leave him to rest and retrieve him after this all passes. Tchaikovsky's younger than he looks, not that much younger than Kiva himself, but everything he does is melded into desperation, like he's running out of time. Kiva only hears the scribbling of when he's composing, cannot imagine what it might sound like beyond that, it makes him restless. 

The orange cat moves in, between Kirill and Misha, it doesn't seem to like Kiva much, but it purrs all the time. No other choice but to fall asleep with sound now, and with ink-stained fingers petting the inside of his eyelids, heart heavy with something else that settles to stay.

*** 

'Pan Tchaikovsky, midnight. It's time to go.'

'Take me home with you.'

'I already have two dogs.'

He laughs, and Kiva thanks his mothers quietly, that his tongue stays sharp through embarrassment.

*** 

On the ticket Tchaikovsky leaves on the counter one night, it says _Overture in F major_. It feels overdue, in a way, Kiva's never asked to hear his work.

Out of nervousness, Tchaikovsky stops coming by all up to the performance. Kiva thinks it childish, he's always allowed Tchaikovsky to pick up whatever raw stones and ugly bronze pins he might favor, uncertainty shouldn't matter all that much between them. It's different maybe.

It's different from what Kiva thought music would be as well. Foreign, and if Tchaikovsky's expression is anything to go by as he conducts, nowhere near what he intended, there are rogue movements of his fingers that mean nothing but an insistent desire to change the notes as they're being played. Kiva can't pinpoint all the imperfections in the music, and among all these people that probably can, students and teachers and nobility, he learns to be comfortable. He knows more, after all. Tchaikovsky's allowed him more, he wants Kiva here, third row just to his left, and the familiarity of his profile, earned slowly, turns Kiva somewhat liquid, fond.

It's different, when he needs to look up at Tchaikovsky, the width of his shoulders, the nervous energy in his hands, strands of hair escaping from behind his ear. It's pointy, and reddened, and Kiva wants-

Oh. Kiva wants earrings on it, solid gold to maybe twist up, around, maybe pierced not only once. He should be scared, but isn't. Leaves quickly once it's over, not quite ready, he hasn't listened close enough. 

Kirill comes to bark at him lazily, while Misha curls closer around the cat. He gives them all his food, stomach twisting with worry, with something sweet as well, he feels dirty as if he's been with a woman. Almost sated, with nothing but violent scribbling in his periphery, day after day, wearing him down. Kiva makes to pet the cat, receives only hissing, and Kirill nudges at his hand, licks the cat straight on the face. It resigns itself then, and allows careful touches against its ears. 

The three of them huddle together until morning eventually, and Kiva goes to his shop. Grisha gasps, done up with makeup in the cold night, laughs like a banshee as he points evil to the shadow sobbing against the door of the jewelry. He should have hurried, although Kiva doesn't quite dislike this crying, Tchaikovsky shakes with it, red and snotty, and pliant, nowhere to run between Kiva's body and the door, while Kiva takes his time unlocking, mean, mean and wanting. 

He curls an arm around his middle to draw him close, and feels Tchaikovsky's ribs fluttering panicked, all the way inside. Kiva thinks he might know how this goes, right before Tchaikovsky straightens out and away, turns on him with his jaw tight against crying whimpers, gets him by the lapels of his coat to walk him backwards until the edge of the counter digs into Kiva's spine. There's sounds coming out of him, not exactly surprised, harder to control when Tchaikovsky's hands mellow, pat away the damage, pat lower over Kiva's stomach, point of support for when he leans up. Stops to press a kiss to Kiva's chin, and lingers. 

'You didn't like it. Why did you run?'

'You didn't like it either. Shouldn't leave out all your thoughts like that,' and Kiva knows as he's speaking, that he would've never looked twice if Tchaikovsky had tried to hide at all. It hits him wrong, the thought he could've missed this wonder in how he's being touched right now. 

'I was writing something else when I was here with you, something I wanted more.'

'I'll wait then. I can wait.' The right thing to say, and Kiva doesn't say it easily, but his lungs constrict with pride when Tchaikovsky's mouth opens, and his breath smells of chocolate, and his lower lip catches on his own, as he speaks. 

'What's your name?' Oh, and he's trying to take things from Kiva still, one at a time, to strip him naked. Nothing he wouldn't give freely. 

'Kiva.' 

Kiva's called him _his customer_ , in the beginning. Tchaikovsky kisses him, just the press of his mouth dry, a little cold, the shape of it and the line that forms between his eyebrows because his lips are chapped, and it hurts, when they crack from pressure. His customer. His. From the start, his, certainty that closes around his heart like a ring. 

Tchaikovsky... Pyotr is a liar, not a thief, Kiva knows people. It doesn't matter much, if he sees through it anyway, there's sweetness to the way this chest pushed up against his forgets to move, stutters as it remembers. He's young. Kiva will wait. 

Tchaikovsky lets him go, takes a step back, grin shaky but crooked, and his fingers stray by his mouth before he has time to control it. Pretty, like a girl. He'll run away. Kiva tilts his head back, closes his eyes, waits him out. His mouth comes back, and he must raise up on his tip toes to reach Kiva's temple, a touch at the side of his neck, and then hurried steps 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. The click of the door.

*** 

Kiva has customers the next morning when Tchaikovsky comes in. It's a good minute that Kiva can't hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears. He's half sure he doesn't ask for the correct price, but that's alright, business isn't bad.

He figures they're alone only because anxiety creeps up on him once Tchaikovsky starts climbing the glass counter to get to him, dirty shoes abandoned on the other side. Good lord. 

Kiva completely underestimates his weight as he makes to help him over, and they fall to the floor, elbows and edges getting the brunt of it, but that's alright as well, he can't breathe with Tchaikovsky's tongue digging into his gums anyway. Somehow, god only knows, he manages to drag them both to the backroom, pulls the curtains closed at the entrance. His arm gets twisted in them, if someone comes in, they'll get found out for sure. Good thing... good thing he keeps the floor clean. Should be cleaner, for those sharp knees covered in fuzz. It's hard to focus, but this is new, Kiva takes everything, slows Tchaikovsky down from his impatience. They won't last, and he's becoming scared that he won't remember later, the exact shape of those hipbones underneath skin, the correct shade of pink, the words that fall shameless from that mouth, he could drown. His want comes in waves, unpredictable, his desire has never tipped to this, to a slow whiny chant of _touchmetouchmetouchme_ as Kiva kisses down his neck, fits his mouth into the dip just above the collarbones, slight offense at being told, the satisfaction of desperation.

Tchaikovsky shakes at every touch, like he might be a witch after all, and Kiva might turn black from his fingers, might catch on fire to burn for all eternity, like this isn't allowed, like he'll be inevitably punished. Far from regret, even as they fumble, but Kiva lays a hand to his chest, and he fears, has to squeeze Tchaikovsky to him, just hold him there for a while, until his heart beats stop bleeding into each other, terrifying. 

Kiva tries saying his name and gets frustrated fingers pressing into his mouth, a petulant hiss of _no, Pyotr_ , though nothing comes out in the end, too full of pieces of him. 

The ring inside Kiva's chest tightens, glows hot. He's never loved easily, but this he can't control, a weight he craves to bear to his grave, the childish cruelty he can taste in that mouth. There's no escape, no going back. He wants to hurt.

*** 

Kiva does learn how to speak his name, later, at home, he takes his time with it, in his own bed. They figure out everything else, that Kiva's flexible and that Pyotr doesn't feel his tiredness until his body bruises and breaks and collapses, until he can't move anymore, only laughs at his lover's fear.

The cat sleeps between Kirill and Misha, on the other side of the door, purrs loud enough that they can hear it.

*** 

Kiva settles into this new body, and it's not much different. Softer perhaps, somewhat unruly, though Pyotr seems to pull from him with picky fingers, whatever he likes, so Kiva opens to allow him in, unashamed. A little like melding silver into bronze, Pyotr seems to fill out hollows of himself, becomes daring, a stupid sort of braveness that fits him right, it makes Kiva flush needy. There's nothing else to do but watch and hope for more time, another day, one of those secret smiles, kisses over the counter, another chance to hear his music.

The fortune teller walks in on them one evening, and she slams the door shut behind her before she gets to sorting out her face, crisp cold air licking at their ankles. Her mouth moves silently, fish out of water, while Pyotr is seconds away from bolting out the window, bars or no bars. Kiva wouldn't expect anything less after all, it doesn't sting, not when laughter bubbles up into his mouth because he knows how young she is under all the make-up, the excitement of secrets, of illegality. It comes unexpectedly, the thought he'd like her and Pyotr to get along, or better not, _good lord, that would be dangerous_. Not so bad maybe, in another life.

'Ah, Madam. Did you need me? Or does the bookshop not welcome you any longer?' Mean, now that Kiva's picking on children... she'd confessed affection to the bookshop keeper after months of fiery war, of slammed doors and broken crystal balls, of almost setting fire to the books themselves, displaced love. Hard-fought, it was unintended that Kiva hid behind a shelf, burning with embarrassment as the truce was reached. He'd promised not to tell. Using it as leverage isn't any better, but something of Tchaikovsky has bled in, that crooked smile.

'The bookshop has a lock, is yours broken? Oh and here I thought Grisha only jokes...' 

Kiva laughs until he's wheezing painfully, through Tchaikovsky's frustrated _please stop laughing, are all your neighbors like this_.

It's good. Kiva tries to breathe, and remember, precious sound, and taste, and touch, the smell of green around Christmas, paw prints in white, some smaller. Grisha sneaks up on them on Christmas Eve, as they're going into the shop, latches himself to Pyotr's arm something vicious, all lowered eyelashes and colored lips, and Pyotr grabs at the waist of his dress, kisses him wetly high on his cheek. His eyes never leave Kiva, not a promise, not exactly a challenge, but Kiva knows this already. It doesn't make his love any less consuming, it's his, Tchaikovsky can't control that, edges inside himself that cut repeatedly over the same place, dear, a hurtful thing he craves like water.

Sometime between Christmas and New Year, a music box appears on the small, round table in the far corner of the shop. Kiva doesn't want to see it, polished wood that burns orange in what little sunlight they have now, it takes a while to notice, and accept. Pyotr crowds at the table, papers folding around the box and his spine curves more, hints of anxiety.

Kiva can't ignore it forever. It's not ugly, if a little clunky, familiar, the image of his cat.

'Is it Mozart?'

'Yes,' and then Kiva knows he's run out of time.

*** 

Kiva isn't lonely, after. He just develops a propensity for earrings, is all. Solid gold, that twist up like vines, for ears pierced more than once. Business goes on well as usual, and he returns home every night, to Kirill and Misha, and the cat he hasn't named. Grisha trains in fortune-telling, sticks to men's clothing after all, learns how to read. Cries like he's still a child when Kiva demands that he should study properly, go to college, offers to pay for it. Another stray, but Kiva has money for such frivolities now.

He goes to concerts, learns to tell the difference between the metal texture of the music box and the smooth gold of performance. The one time he makes a trip to Moscow, Tchaikovsky hunts him down in a matter of hours, takes him to a Brahms symphony just to pick it apart right in Kiva's ear, disrespectful. They kiss in the back alley behind the theater, filthy, and Kiva can tell immediately he's kissed someone else in the meantime. 

He knows this is what's meant for him. He knows, but his heart still bleeds cut up, tissue sewing back together with the violence of Tchaikovsky's teeth biting into him, still so needy, like he's been drinking salt water. 

He doesn't visit anymore, after that, just files away the fact that Tchaikovsky wears a silver necklace now, thin, hidden under his collar, it has a twisty, difficult latch, one of Kiva's first works. It's enough, that never comes off. 

Kiva feels relief mostly, when he figures Tchaikovsky isn't teaching in Moscow anymore, a removed sort of bitterness at how Europe might change him. He hopes France is good to him.

*** 

He's learned the sound of his steps, still remembers. Kiva doesn't realize it until he hears them again, just on the side of wrong, a little heavy. He must've gained weight.

It's morning, smoky air, and Kiva's working on earrings out of all things, in the backroom, barely has time to get up and hide behind the wall by the entrance, a corner of a shelf poking him in the side. His breathing comes out harsh and he can't control himself, doesn't quite want to either. _Oh god, the music box is there, on the table, pitiful._

Kiva hears him walk, the six steps up to the counter, slowly, can feel him look around, taking in this new shape of everything, and that Kiva doesn't sell watches anymore. There's only one left, by the mirror, behind fresh flowers. Kiva's started growing, planted again and again until Kirill and Misha bored of digging them back up. There's only one watch left, but Tchaikovsky can never buy it back. Kiva wonders if he can still see, if he's still a witch, if he's become more wicked, and he has to bite his fist then, to stop words from coming out. His chest swells with want, ribs suddenly painful all over, he thinks he might break from this, too soon. 

Pyotr doesn't speak, and it's telling enough, that he's waiting for forgiveness which won't come. Stitches ripping open, and Kiva prays the ring around his heart never rusts.

Tchaikovsky stays for too long, Kiva can't tell anymore with this pressure along his spine, like the wall is breathing back to him. There's too much light, fuzzy bronze, and something in Kiva settles. His shop is clean, the way it's always been, ceiling tall and polished wood, cold glass that he wipes obsessively until he's satisfied. Extension of himself, he's not ashamed if Pyotr sees those earrings, or the anklets, if he sees, as he should, that Kiva owns him now, parts of him melded into gold. 

They stay like that for a long time, but Kiva doesn't love him for nothing. 

He leaves, after a while. There are dark peonies dripping water on glass, and he comes back the next day, and the day after, and for as many days it takes for Kiva to steady, enough that he can offer himself to be cut up again. One morning Kiva doesn't have time to hide, and Tchaikovsky understands that he shouldn't look up from the floor. 

One morning Kiva waits until he's in front of the counter, and he opens the buttons of Tchaikovsky's coat, trails knuckles up his chest, against his neck. The pulse there is as fast as he remembers, his necklace moving with it. Kiva hears his breath hitch, feels Tchaikovsky's eyes linger on his eyelashes, sees them widen once Kiva looks at him properly. There are bruises and teeth imprints on his throat, but Kiva heals quicker than that. 

'I might have liked France a little too much.'

'Did you know I'm half French?' 

Tchaikovsky's smile is a mirror of his own, crooked and familiar, edges sharp between them, and Kiva's happiness tastes of bloodied satisfaction. 

For all that Pyotr is a witch, Kiva might as well be the devil.

*** 

Tchaikovsky marries not half a year later. Kiva refuses to make the rings, kisses him hatefully, kisses him careful and slow and certain.

He comes back, the way he always does, the way he always will until he can't anymore, when he'll have died. Kiva's mean maybe, it's rubbed off on him from this love of his, and makes him climb over the counter again, just because he knows Pyotr will indulge him. 

They're older, but Kiva's soul fills the same, arms full of him, of raspy laughter from a voice despised innocent, in his shop that's clean, with a mirror cracked out of superstition and flowers that drown in leaves. 

They're older, and Kiva has one dog and one cat, and a puppy, and good neighbors that aren't necessarily good people, and a son of sorts who likes red dresses, but not red lipstick. 

One day Tchaikovsky won't come back to him, and he'll be left with love to carry him through. 

With music.

**Author's Note:**

> this has become something entirely different from the initial intention. it follows for the most part real life events, tchaikovsky's conducting debut, bits of his personality that i could find, that encounter with a prostitute in France, his marriage. not the main focus, but it was fun, until it wasn't. i just wanted something good for him.
> 
> kirill means 'lord' and misha is that one extremely common dog name in russia, so 'do you pick favourites?' is sort of a joke. :)
> 
> going back to my breddy comfortable pit now, i miss them.


End file.
